Strawberry Swirls
by CathryForever
Summary: Just a thing I started, about Henry's obsession with Catherine's hair - inspired by and dedicated to Eva and Issi! :)
1. A Powerful Attribute

1\. A Powerful Attribute

She wore it up these days. Coiled and swirled in intricate designs on the back of her head by the hands of her skilled ladies. With the distance that had grown between them, Henry found it easy to forget the effect that his Queen's hair had on him. He almost never saw her in her chambers outside of her role as Queen of France, so there was little opportunity to view her with her hair down like she used to wear it. She was regal and elegant, mature and authoritative. A woman, and not a girl.

The way Catherine styled her hair was befitting of her station, and she dressed in an equally suitable way. Henry was always pleased with her choice of gowns and dresses. They may not be close to each other any longer, and perhaps at each other's throats more often than not, but she reflected well on him as his Queen, standing at his side. She looked and acted the part, which added to his own regal appearance, and he was pleased with that.

Last evening, he had gone to her chambers, angry with her about something that he'd immediately forgotten the moment he'd set eyes on her. Something she was obviously expecting, and she had wasted no energy on venting her own anger towards him on the subject. Almost ready for bed, she had been seated in the chair at her vanity as her ladies finished letting her hair down, setting the pins carefully in their box, when Henry had stormed in. She had risen furiously from her chair in her floor-length nightgown and robe, tension bristling all over her body, and sharply ordered her ladies to leave the room. He had meant to return her fire with his own, but he had no recollection of his argument, watching her approach him with her hazel eyes ablaze, her sunset hair long and luxurious down her back. When she tossed her head to the side as she scoffed in irritation over something he wasn't even listening to, her hair flowed over one shoulder, its curled tips resting softly over her robed breast. Henry had been mesmerised by the silkiness of its layers which slid together, mingling the sweet curls amongst each other as she moved. By the time he had returned his gaze to her eyes, he had no interest at all in the subject of their disagreement, and could think only of her fire and colour bringing out her beauty, and of touching this untameable, passionate creature.

Henry had faced her down, silently, with that great tension hanging in the air, as she had braced herself and lifted her stubborn little chin – such stubbornness drove him insane, and yet sometimes was the source of his passion for her. Such an exasperating paradox. He had felt an intoxicating surge of angry frustration and intense desire, and when she had fiercely uttered "What are you going to _do_ about it!", he had reached out with a sudden impatience that had surprised even himself, and grasped her shoulder – the one that was covered with her flowing silken curls. He had had only a moment to appreciate the plush softness of her lovely hair beneath his hand before he realised that she had similarly taken hold of him, her eyes looking into his, their fire now a mixture of fierce emotion and lustful passion.

He remembered their lips crushing together, with all the anger and resentment they had between them fuelling their passion. How her hands grasped desperately at his body as his hands roamed hers, forcing ties and tearing buttons as they clawed the clothing from each other, before resuming their focus – each of them pulling, pressing, urgently seeking, the unresolved tension between them adding aggression to their touch. He had sought to diffuse his tension with her body, as it seemed she was doing with his, and the results had been mind-blowing. This was one place they spoke the same language, where they were completely compatible – between the sheets.

He had been especially entranced by her hair that evening, and he could not even explain the power it gave her over him. The carnal aspect of their marriage was normally very satisfying, and he had learned that tension between them made for sensational sex, but that night – her hair shifting softly over her bare skin, framing her face to make her look to Henry more arousing than he had ever seen her, he simply couldn't explain it. He had only to open his eyes at the peak of his passion and behold her with her beautiful hair mussed slightly, her eyes closed and her lips apart, strawberry blonde curls moving with the rapid rise and fall of her chest as she gasped and panted, their tips brushing his chest as she leaned over him, and he was catapulted into a state of unparalleled ecstasy, more explosive – he felt sure – than if he had not opened his eyes and drank in the sight of her.

In the aftermath of bliss, with Catherine collapsed over his chest as she fought to catch her breath, Henry had sifted his fingers through the soft curls fanned out over his chest and shoulder, tenderly stroking the silky locks against him. He had threaded his fingers through the softness to reach the skin on Catherine's shoulders and back, but she appeared to be recovering, and sat up, eyeing him with a look that told him she hadn't forgotten how he had hurt and angered her. They had spoken no words as they parted from each other, cleaning up and putting their clothes back on again. Henry had watched, unable to bring himself to apologise, as Catherine had sat at her vanity once more, braiding her hair back, putting it out of his sight again. And, the tension released but not resolved, he had left.

Now, as he lay in his own bed, dwelling on his delight in her red-gold hair, he remembered a time only a couple of years back when he had overheard a few noblemen talking at a party he had hosted. Normally he would have been provoked to jealousy by any compliment spoken from a man towards his wife, but they were not being scandalous about her, simply complimentary.

"I will say, the Queen of France does possess the most beautiful hair in the most intriguing colour," one man had pointed out.

"Indeed," replied another. "It serves her well, does it not? The Queen is a fine compliment to King Henry."

How could Henry think ill towards these nobles, as they had included him in their compliments?! No, his chest had swelled with pride, an enjoyment of this praise directed at himself, but also a thrill that he possessed a wife with an attribute so striking that it was talked about amongst his people. He had loved her hair before, but the overheard conversation seemed to add to his pleasure every time he glanced at Catherine and noticed her hair, in whatever way she had chosen to style it that day.

Of course, it was no secret between them that his favourite style was _without_ style. Henry had always loved it when Catherine wore her hair loose. When they were young, she always wore it loose, sometimes with ribbons threaded through it, or a little of it pulled back from her face and tied with one.

Relaxing into his pillows, Henry allowed his mind to wander further back in time, as memory triggered memory. He had so many that he enjoyed revisiting, about Catherine and her lovely hair.


	2. Wet

2\. Wet

The rain came, just as they knew it would. He had smelt it on the air and warned Catherine that a walk wasn't the best idea, but she would have none of it, and strutted off in defiance of the gathering clouds, throwing a mischievous smirk over her shoulder in his direction, daring him to join her. They had walked the grounds for a while before coming to rest by the lake, where Catherine let go of his hand to stretch her arms wide as she took in the view of the water moving like rippled glass, reflecting the sky darkly as the storm clouds drew closer. The breeze was pregnant with the promise of rain and she breathed in deeply, appearing to Henry to be exhilarated by it. It was one of those moments that he knew he would always remember. Catherine, so beautiful, full of life and exuberance, her face lit up brighter than the world around them, her eyes shining. Her hair was loose, the ribbon that had held part of it away from her face tugged free by the increasing breeze. Little tendrils of golden hair which curled and fluttered honeyed blonde at one moment, and almost sunset red the next, brushed her jawline and whipped around her shoulders. Henry could barely notice the weather around them, or consider the glory of the storm-covered lake before them. Catherine captivated him. She was like a storm goddess on the lakeside, standing there with her beauty untamed as she called upon the clouds to release their burden.

"Henry," she breathed, "isn't it beautiful!"

He stepped up close to her, standing almost between her and the lake as he circled her waist with his hands and drew her body flush against his.

"I don't know," he whispered in her ear, her hair surprisingly soft as it whipped against his face in the wind. "I am too busy looking at you."

She giggled, caught off guard by his comment, a sweet flush covering her cheeks as she turned her eyes from him. She was still sweet and shy when he complimented her, even a year into their marriage, and he found it so endearing. He hoped she never outgrew that reaction.

" _Hen_ -ry…" Catherine found her voice, mildly protesting his flattery as she pushed gently at his shoulder. He ignored her, slipping his hands lower over her hips and pulling her tighter to him so that she had to hang on to his shoulders to avoid toppling backwards.

"There's something about a storm rolling in," he continued, "don't you think? The tension and the atmosphere. It's intoxicating somehow." He kissed the shell of her ear and nibbled her earlobe gently. She giggled, shrugging her shoulder and tilting her head to escape the tickling sensation as she pulled back a little from his embrace.

"You're incorrigible!" she laughed, her eyes gazing into his lovingly. The pause as the wind rolled over them was wordless, but then, they didn't need words. His eyes reflected the feeling in hers, assuring her of his love for her, and then he leaned down slowly to kiss her. Her lips were so soft against his, and he loved the way her breath caught in a sudden inhale as he deepened the kiss, her bare arms coming up behind his neck to pull him closer to her. There were times when Henry felt he could gladly give up his birth right, forgo his responsibilities to France, and spend all his waking hours kissing his wife like this instead, because it seemed like the only thing in the world that mattered.

Just as he was all but lost in her, he felt the rain sweep over them, lightly sprinkling them as they stood entwined at the lakeside. Catherine broke the kiss, laughing and scrunching her face as she tipped it back to let the droplets fall on her. Henry laughed too, because how could he not? She laughed at the rain, but he laughed because she was so captivating. Tiny beads like dew adorned the hair around her face, and the curls were already tightening, darkening as the water permeated them. He reached out without even realising, and touched one, enjoying the feel of it gripping his fingertip damply before he let it go. She turned her face to him and smiled, and he kissed the droplets of rain from her pretty mouth.

"Your Majesty?"

The arrival of his most trusted servant startled him as the questioning voice broke through Henry's fond reminiscing.

"Will there be anything you need before retiring for the night?"

"No, thank you." Henry dismissed the man with a distracted flip of his hand, closing his eyes and trying to get back to the place he had been enjoying so much. He groaned with frustration at the realisation that it had slipped out of his grasp a little too far to retrieve it. What had the last thing been? _Come on!_ He was surprised by how urgently he needed to have that moment back all of a sudden. Catherine's curls tightening in the rain, and… _damn it!_

He sat up straighter in his bed, pressing the heels of his palms over his eyes as he pushed his forehead into his hands, annoyed with himself, and with the damn servant for interrupting him. He felt as though he had actually been back in that moment with Catherine again. He could smell the rain, hear her laughter, see the moisture in her hair and on her eyelashes as she looked up at him. He sighed. He wished he could be back there again, somehow. He felt, well, twenty years lighter, and such happiness… Henry shook himself mentally, trying to force himself to remember again, to escape the melancholy that had suddenly come over him.

Catherine's hair… Catherine's hair wet with the rain – oh yes! He couldn't quite return to the details of the moment he'd lost, but now he remembered how they had run back towards the castle hand-in-hand, heads bent against the rain that cascaded down in torrential sheets – no longer the light sprinkling shower that they had kissed under. Catherine's hand slipped in his as water ran between their fingers. Her progress slowed as her luxurious skirts grew heavier, and it wasn't helped by her continued laughter, making her breathless and inefficient at running. Henry glanced at her, blinking rainwater out of his eyes, and saw her hair, hanging in dripping strings, like dark caramel, over her shoulders and down her back. The little curls he loved around her face were curled no longer, but plastered darkly against her fair skin. He pulled her to stop, and she stood before him, gasping and laughing, their heads temporarily protected by the shelter of a large tree. Her chin dripped, and he reached out and smoothed the curve of it with his thumb. Her eyes were so beautiful. Honey and brown sugar somehow more clear and vibrant without the usual accompaniment of her strawberry blonde hair. The change in tone with her darker hair made him gasp as he took in her beauty.

"Your chin is running!" she chuckled. Henry smiled at her, uncaring of the water coursing down his face, keeping hold of her chin in a gentle grasp.

"You're so beautiful, Catherine."

"With my hair like this?!" she protested, "I hardly think - "

"Oh, _especially_ with your hair like this," he teased, hiding the truth of his words with humour because he didn't know how to explain how much the sight of her affected him.

Mmmm, Catherine with wet hair… Henry came back to the present, realising that he had hummed his approval out loud, and he took a moment to climb out of bed and put out the candles in his bedchamber for the night, all except the one at his bedside, before returning to his sheets and his memories.

As Henry had led Catherine under the stone-covered archway into the castle, the rain-soaked pair had attracted the attention of concerned ladies-in-waiting and servants, who flapped about trying to lift Catherine's wet hair from her neck, and generally getting in Henry's way. Eventually, irritated that he could not enjoy this moment with his beautiful, dripping bride, he shooed them away, giving his servant the order to draw a hot bath in his chambers and be sure the fire was well tended, and tasking Catherine's ladies to retrieve clothes and necessities from her chambers, and bring them to his. As they scurried away, leaving them in peace, he turned to her and took her hand.

"Are we to share a bath, husband?" she asked with mock scandal and astonishment.

"Yes, wife, we are." He smiled down at her and winked, loving the way her eyes twinkled at him, as he pulled her gently to walk in the direction of his chambers.

That afternoon, they had dismissed the servants and stripped each other of their wet clothing. He had helped Catherine into the bathtub before climbing in with her, and watched her slide down, plunging her whole body under the hot, scented water. Her hair floated briefly to the surface, an intoxicating shade of dark red against the surrounding water, before she re-emerged, pushing the water from her face and smoothing her hair back. It lay slick and heavy over her back and shoulders, longer than he'd known it to be, and exasperatingly covering her breasts from his sight. She followed his gaze and chuckled at his frustration, shaking her head at his antics.

"What?!" he uttered, pretending to be defensive, "I love your…. hair!" And he did. Along with various other delightful attributes that she possessed.

That had been one of his favourite afternoons spent with his wife since one incredible afternoon at the chateau in Anet during their wedding tour. The bath was relaxing and restoring after the chill of the rain, and the solitude wonderful without the servants interrupting. They hadn't needed much conversation. It was one of those occasions where actions spoke louder than words. Henry remembered the way Catherine had instantly forgiven him his naughty glance, leaning over and kissing him in the bath, as though they had all the time in the world. He had lost track of time, but it seemed as though they must have been kissing and allowing their hands to caress the water against each other's skin at a leisurely pace for what seemed like hours. The slide of their bodies against each other was almost driving him insane, when she finally suggested that the water was getting cold, and perhaps they should get out. They had settled down on the thick rug in front of the blazing fire with their robes, but had not even managed to dry properly, ending up with their robes spread beneath them as they made love, naked but heated by the fire and their passion. Afterwards, as he held her in his arms, enjoying the feel of her warm skin against his, he bent his face to kiss hers, and smiled at the sight of the curl returning to her hair, now partly dry. He stroked it back from her forehead and pressed his lips there, his nose buried in its softness.

Drowsily comforted by the memory, Henry hoped that he might be fortunate enough to dream about that afternoon – ideally that type of dream where sensations are magnified, he thought to himself, a smile curving his lips as he drifted off to sleep.

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 **Thank you so much for the reviews - oooh I'm so excited that you like this! I love writing Cathry so it makes me happy!**


	3. Mama

3\. Mama

"It's not that I have no interest, it's just that I'm… distracted, that's all." Henry tried to reassure his mistress. She was sulky, and he understood why, but he couldn't possibly explain it to her. He barely understood it himself. Since that night last week when he and Catherine had shared a frenzied moment of angry passion in her chambers, he hadn't been able to stop thinking about her – or more specifically, her hair. He couldn't say why that evening had been a trigger for all the memories and feelings, but it had been, somehow. It was becoming predictable, something he automatically did when he had a moment to himself, and each evening before he fell asleep. The memories rolled in, and he enjoyed them so much that he looked forward to getting time to think of his wife.

Of course, _real_ present-moment interactions with his Queen were not so fond and affectionate. Approaching her in person was difficult because she was still very much giving him the cold shoulder, complete with stony glances and as few spoken words as possible. He used to simply put it out of his mind when the atmosphere between them was strained like this, but now… now, it bothered him more than he expected it to. And he wasn't sure how to fix it. He had never taken much interest in resolving arguments, and going through the motions of apologising made him break out in a nervous sweat.

Diane's hand ran slowly up his arm. She looked almost suspicious. As though she knew him well enough to wonder if he was hiding something from her.

"Are you too stressed with your duties lately?"

"No. I'm tired, but no. Nothing has changed."

"Something has," she stated with certainty. She took her hand back, looking into his face earnestly. "If there was a problem, you would tell me, wouldn't you?"

"Yes, of course!" Henry gave what he hoped was a convincing smile. "I just feel… distracted. Perhaps I've been inside these castle walls too long?"

His mistress brightened. "Why don't we take a walk together?"

"If you don't mind," Henry raised his eyes in an apologetic glance, "I think some solitude is what I need right now."

/-/-/-/-/-/

Outside in the grounds, Henry crossed the lawn and followed the path through the rose beds, putting distance between himself and the castle. He wasn't really in need of time out of the castle walls, but he did feel somewhat suffocated by Diane's presence. He just didn't want her there. She didn't fit, somehow, after what he had been dwelling on. She seemed suddenly to be an irritating distraction. He felt uncomfortable about it, but his stirring feelings for Catherine drew him on regardless, and he willingly went with them.

He was considering whether to go to the lakeside to the place where they had waited for the storm to roll in, or perhaps to sit on a bench in the woodland area, so that he could spend some time with his memories, when his senses jerked him back to alertness. Where the lawns met the rose-beds on the far side, he could make out two people standing and talking, and he didn't want to be noticed. After walking a little further, he stopped, lingering behind a large rosebush filled with sweet scented yellow roses.

Beyond him stood his wife and his eldest son, talking in a relaxed manner together. He couldn't make out their words, but from the gentle rise and fall of their voices, he could tell that it was an informal conversation, and they appeared to be enjoying one another's company. His heart warmed as he watched them. Just the way Francis looked at his mother told Henry how much he cared for her. And, as he already knew, Catherine absolutely adored Francis. Her face shone as she smiled at him while he told her something that apparently amused her. Henry watched his son lean forward slightly, and when he righted himself, Catherine reached up and went to touch a wayward curl of his fair hair – a curl that he had inherited from his mother – and attempted to tidy it back a little. He ducked slightly and gave her a slightly chastising look, but she smiled lovingly nonetheless.

Henry had seen that look on Catherine so many times before. She was such a loving mother. His mind wandered back to the time when Francis had been a little baby. He had been looking for her one afternoon, searching half the castle to no avail, and had eventually decided to try the nursery, in case she was with her son – and of course, she was. He had paused in the doorway, out of her line of sight, much as he was doing now in the gardens, so that he could observe her for a moment. He had been caught off guard by the scene before him. Catherine leaned back in the cushioned window seat, reclining there with the afternoon light washing over her, with their little son in her arms. Her face glowed with pleasure as she looked down at his tiny face, cooing and talking softly to him. The corners of her eyes crinkled as she smiled, and Henry had stifled a gasp – how could he have forgotten already how beautiful his wife was when she smiled like that? Perhaps it had been too long since she had had reason to show him a loving smile. He remembered how that thought had tugged at him, and then he had returned his attention to watching her, and the uncomfortable thought was soothed away.

Little Francis beamed up at his mother, toothless and shiny-eyed. He reached his little chubby hand up and Catherine lowered her face to it, kissing his little fingers and then pretending to eat them, which made the little one squeal and giggle. Henry leaned against the doorpost, taking immense pleasure in watching his wife laugh softly, her joy apparent in every way. Her hair, loose around her shoulders, had slipped forwards as she leaned to play with her son, and his little hand reached up again and grasped a handful of her red-gold waves. There, time stood still between them as the infant held his mother's hair while she stroked the downy fuzz on his small head, they gazed into each other's eyes, Catherine loving him so fiercely and little Francis reflecting that devotion even at such a young age. It was no surprise to Henry, having witnessed that moment, that Catherine had such a strong bond with her firstborn son.

He remembered other times with their daughters – she was such a good mother. On one occasion, Elizabeth, who was perhaps six or seven at the time, had clutched at her mother's hand after breakfast, pleading with her to find the time to come later to the nursery, and do her hair.

"Princesses have their hair done beautifully every day, my darling! Don't you like how they do it for you?"

"Yes, but Mama, I want YOU to do it. You told me you could braid your hair all by yourself when you were a girl. Won't you do mine, and show me how, Mama – please?!"

Catherine had laughed, stroking her daughter's rosy cheeks, and nodded her agreement. Henry had not been able to resist sneaking along to the nursery later that morning to see them. He had stood in the doorway, an enormous smile on his face. Catherine had clearly kept her promise. There she sat, in a low-backed cushioned chair, Elizabeth and five-year-old Claude behind her. Their daughters wore braids in their hair, nothing elaborate, but neatly done, he assumed by his wife's own hands. Catherine's hair was a complicated mess of braids of varying sizes, twists that were partially unravelled, and Claude was ferociously stuffing some of them in a weaving pattern that reminded him of a bird's nest, so that they were twisting and looping together.

He had begun to laugh, and once he started, he couldn't stop. All three had jumped at the sound and turned to see who was there. Claude had immediately gone back to her busy task, and Catherine had given him a rather sheepish look, but Elizabeth had been quite put out by her father's reaction.

"Why are you laughing, Papa?!" she had demanded.

"I'm sorry," he chuckled, and then tried to make his expression serious and interested. "Your mother's hair is – is… very…." He began to laugh again.

Elizabeth had put her little hands on her hips. "Very _what_?"

"It's beautiful." He wiped every trace of mirth from his face, his tone sincere. "I can see you girls have been very quick to learn what your mother has taught you."

Satsified, Elizabeth had turned back, picking up the last remaining loose section of her mother's hair and tipping her head to one side as she considered what she would do with it.

Catherine had turned her head slightly, her movement being restricted, her eyes looking at him out of the corners as a little smile curled her lips, and Henry's heart had flooded with warmth. This was a moment of intimacy, somehow. Of parenting, of sharing their daughters together. With natural laughter and knowing looks that their girls would not interpret, it was a moment he would never forget.

And then there was the time when Claude was a tiny baby, and he and Catherine were not particularly close. They had not been intimate during Catherine's pregnancy, and she needed more rest than she had before. Her third pregnancy in as many years made her tired, along with the increased morning sickness that Claude had deigned to grace her with. Henry had sought out Diane more frequently, and grown very close to her over the months without times with Catherine to remind him that he was married. Claude was a demanding newborn and although there was a wet nurse available, Catherine could not seem to sleep while her child cried across the castle. One morning, Henry had needed to ask her something. He had washed and dressed, fresh from a passionate start to the day with his mistress, and headed to the nursery.

There she was, fast asleep on the day bed against the wall, curled protectively around their sleeping baby girl. Her back was to Henry, and what struck him about the scene was once again her hair – a thin coronet braid around the crown of her head, and the rest of it flowing down, rippling in soft waves behind her against the cream-coloured coverlet. He had stopped in his tracks, just staring at her, watching her side rise and fallin slow, regular rhythm. And then without really understanding why, he had eased himself with great care onto the bed behind her, lowering his body whilst holding his breath so that he didn't wake them. Once he was lying beside her, facing her back, he buried his face in her hair, and breathed in deeply. He felt like the distance between them melted away when he had her soft curls against his cheek, their silkiness brushing his lips as he drank deeply of the subtle, lovely scent of her hair. He had lain there next to her for several minutes, just silently enjoying the moment, absently rubbing a lock of her hair gently in his fingers. Then he had felt the sting of guilt, remembering that he had come from Diane's arms. Shame forced him to ease himself away, and he had left the room. She never knew. He just… couldn't tell her how she affected him, when everything else about their relationship was so complicated.

Henry watched Catherine smile fondly at their son, so tall now, and link her arm with his as they walked further down towards the lake. He hung his head, feeling heavy-hearted suddenly. His fingers brushed the soft petals of a yellow rose on the bush he was hidden behind, reminding him with its silkiness of Catherine's locks between his fingers. Impulsively, he plucked it from the bush, breathing in the sweet scent – a momento of sorts, to remind him of the memories he'd relived and the effect they were having on him. These were his favourite roses. There were many varieties in the castle gardens, but he had commissioned dozens and dozens of these particular roses to be planted here, because – oh it was so long ago. Henry smiled, the heavy feeling lifting away like a blanket as he remembered.

Waving to catch the attention of a passing gardener, he left the man with instructions to deliver four dozen of the roses on these bushes to Catherine's chambers immediately, and he made his way back to the castle.


End file.
